Netflix’s Remarkably Bright Creatures arrives with the kind of quiet confidence that feels increasingly rare in modern films. Directed by Olivia Newman and based on the bestselling novel by Shelby Van Pelt, the film stars Sally Field as Tova Sullivan, a grieving widow working night shifts at a small-town aquarium. There she forms an unlikely relationship with Marcellus, a giant Pacific octopus voiced with dry wit and surprising tenderness by Alfred Molina.
On paper, a story about an elderly cleaner confiding in an octopus sounds whimsical to the point of absurdity. Yet the film never treats its premise as a joke. Instead, it leans into loneliness, grief and the fragile ways people find connection after devastating loss. The result is a gentle, emotionally grounded drama that understands something many louder films miss: healing rarely arrives dramatically. More often, it comes quietly, through small acts of care, routine and companionship.
Field is extraordinary here. At 79, she gives one of the most restrained performances of her career. Tova is not written as quirky comic relief or a sentimental caricature of ageing. She is tired, guarded and emotionally disciplined. Decades after the disappearance and presumed death of her son, she lives inside carefully constructed routines. Cleaning the aquarium at night allows her to avoid people, avoid questions and avoid confronting the emptiness that has settled into her life.
Then comes Marcellus.
The film wisely avoids turning the octopus into a magical fantasy figure. Marcellus is intelligent, observant and emotionally perceptive, but he remains recognisably animal. His internal monologue, delivered by Molina, gives the story humour and melancholy without overwhelming it. There are moments where the film edges close to sentimentality, yet it usually pulls back before collapsing into cliché.
Visually, the aquarium setting works beautifully. The blue glow of tanks and drifting sea life creates an atmosphere of stillness and reflection. Water becomes a recurring symbol throughout the film. Grief submerged beneath the surface, memories that continue moving underneath everyday life, and the strange mystery of creation itself.
That mystery is central to why the film works so well through a faith-based lens.
While Remarkably Bright Creatures is not explicitly religious, it is deeply spiritual in its understanding of creation, dignity and connection. The film echoes the biblical idea that the world is alive with meaning and that human beings are not isolated from creation but part of it. Psalm 104 speaks of the sea “teeming with creatures beyond number,” while the Book of Job reminds humanity that wisdom can emerge through observing the natural world. Marcellus becomes more than a clever animal. He functions almost as a witness, a creature observing human brokenness with surprising clarity.
There is also something profoundly Christian in the film’s treatment of grief.
Tova carries sorrow the way many people do in real life: privately and persistently. She has not “moved on.” The film respects that. Instead of offering easy closure, it suggests that healing comes through relationship and vulnerability. Cameron, the troubled young drifter played by Lewis Pullman, enters the story carrying wounds of his own, and the film slowly reveals how damaged people can become instruments of grace in each other’s lives.
That idea — that broken people help restore broken people — sits at the centre of the Gospel.
The movie’s strongest spiritual insight may be its rejection of cynicism. Films often mistake darkness for depth, but Remarkably Bright Creatures believes compassion still matters. Kindness matters. Presence matters. The story suggests that loneliness is not solved through grand achievement but through being truly seen by another living being.
Even Marcellus reflects this in unexpected ways. Though trapped in captivity and nearing the end of his own life cycle, he spends much of the film trying to help Tova reconnect with hope. There is almost a sacrificial quality to the character. He observes, nudges and guides without demanding recognition for himself.
The film also invites reflection on stewardship and creation care. Creation is not disposable; it reveals something of God’s imagination and beauty. The film’s fascination with octopus intelligence naturally recalls documentaries like My Octopus Teacher, which similarly encouraged viewers to reconsider humanity’s relationship with the natural world.
Not everything works perfectly. Some supporting characters feel a little underdeveloped, and parts of the mystery plot resolve a little too neatl, but in many ways that neatness feels earned. Viewers expecting sharp twists or high emotional intensity may find the film too soft-spoken.
But perhaps that softness is precisely the point.
This is a story about weary people learning to live again. About grief that lingers for years. About unexpected companionship. About wonder quietly re-entering a life that had closed itself off from joy.
In an entertainment culture driven by spectacle and irony, Remarkably Bright Creatures chooses a quiet tenderness instead. It trusts stillness. It trusts empathy. And through Sally Field’s deeply humane performance, it becomes less a story about an octopus and more a meditation on mercy, connection and the possibility that even wounded lives can still be drawn toward light.
For viewers approaching the film from a faith perspective, that message may resonate most of all. Sometimes grace arrives in dramatic miracles. Sometimes it arrives quietly, late at night, beside an aquarium tank, through the company of a remarkably bright creature.
